


My Little Crow

by robberreynard



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal, Fingering, Fluff, I’m sorry D&D I came for your whole careers, M/M, Mentions of Dany and Jon/Tormund and Brienne, S08E02, Season 8, Spoilers, a knight of the seven kingdoms - Freeform, just guys being dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21685966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robberreynard/pseuds/robberreynard
Summary: The Long Night comes for all of Winterfell. Tomorrow will be a good day to die. Tonight, Tormund wants to live, and he brings Jon along for the ride.
Relationships: Tormund/Jon Snow
Comments: 3
Kudos: 132





	My Little Crow

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve had this saved in my drafts for the longest time. This was written before the Long Night episode when we, perhaps stupidly, thought the writers would actually kill someone important. I’ve calmed down enough months after the finale to finish this up and post it so take it as you will.  
> Sign the Change.org petition to give Tormund’s character rights to me.

It would be the final night Tormund spent in this world. He could feel it somewhere inside of his ribcage, that gnawing sensation of awaiting death and finality. It wasn’t like the night before any other battles, when he was so hard he had to find the nearest warm thing to put his cock in or he would burst from the pressure. When the air was heavy with anticipation. Excitement. When everyone was as impatient as him to begin. When he was with the free folk.

Southeners weren’t free folk. They had stupid traditions and piss poor drink. It still felt wrong to die in their company. Some of them he liked. The half man and the big woman. Her especially. She would be like climbing into bed with Gon Gon’s wife again. Tonight was a night a man needed a warm body, but she didn’t seem quite ready for him yet. That was fine as far as he was concerned. When they beat back the Night King, maybe she would be. 

No, he had his sights set on someone a little smaller. 

The crypts smelled like old dust and damp earth. The air was thick, warm compared to the chill drifting over Winterfell. It always seemed stupid to him. Idols dedicated to dead men. As if being dead raised them to a godhood worthy of a statue. Southeners always did think they were hot shit like that. If he was dead, he wouldn’t want someone carving his likeness out of rock so he could sit uselessly under the dirt, staring at a wall until he crumbled to dust. Or he would rot above ground, being shit on by birds. He stopped in front of a pretty woman with a candle in her extended hand. The wax dripped from her palm to the floor, the flame nearly spent. He weaved his fingers through the fire.

“You know,” came a voice from the statue, “I came down here to be alone, but somehow everyone still finds me.”

Tormund tipped his head to look beyond the frail waif cast in stone. A black crow sat on the lip of her tomb, swallowed by her shadow and that of her wolf. He moved his thumb up the carved palm to her wrist. “Not hard to find. Pick the darkest place in the camp to brood and there you’ll meet Jon Snow.”

“Am I really as broody as everyone says?” he asked.

“Pretty broody.”

A small laugh and that slip of teeth flashed in the dark. Jon Snow had good teeth. Tormund normally didn’t trust men with good teeth. In the north, the only men with good teeth were usually Thenns, who got them by picking them clean with human bones. 

“I like when I can see your teeth,” he found himself saying, caressing the dead woman’s visage, tracing where she had cracked.

“What, d’you mean when I smile?”

He hummed in agreement. “You don’t smile much, Jon Snow. You’re a grim fucker.”

“I’ve more reason than usual to be grim tonight.” He shifted, his leathers squeaking, to clasp his hands. “We’re going to die within the next few hours. I was almost okay with it, you know? I thought I was alright dying again. Then I found something worth living for, then I lost it, and now I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“The queen reject you, hm?”

Jon bobbed his head in a funny sort of shrug. “In a manner of speaking.” A pause. “I found out she’s my aunt.”

“Mh. You southeners like fucking your family, seems like. Is that a nobleman thing? That why you’re all so weak and small?”

“I wouldn’t have- if I’d known-” He gave up on his justifications with a frustrated sigh, shoving his gloved hands into his hair. 

Tormund looked about. The tallest candle he could find was in the palm of a frowning man with a big sword, so he snapped it off from the base. As he held it towards Jon, chasing away the darkness he’d shrouded himself in, brown eyes looked up at him from behind his hands. Dirt colored, sort of like horse eyes in certain lights. Honest eyes. Horses were too stupid to be dishonest.

He puddled a little hot wax on the corner of the tomb and stuck the candle upright in it, settling into a space next to him. Their shadows on the wall danced with one another, flickering, becoming one, then two. He watched them for awhile in the quiet of the grave. Jon’s fingers twined together, unwound, strained against his gloves. Tormund dwarfed both of his hands with one of his own to stop the noise. He squeezed it softly until Jon stilled. 

There they sat as the minutes passed and the damp catacombs dripped somewhere far off. No voices carried, though they were bound to be making noise topside. The battle could have started and they would be none the wiser. Down here, there was nothing. Like death, he imagined.

“I didn’t think I’d ever love anyone after Ygritte,” he eventually said in a small voice unbecoming of the King Crow, the King in the North, the King who could have been bloody King Beyond the Wall if he tried hard enough. Tormund traced the back of his knuckles with a thumb. “I didn’t even consider love. I was prepared to go the rest of my life alone.”

“Just because you don’t have someone to fuck doesn’t mean you’re alone.”

“It’s not the same. I…” He gave a small snort. “I had these mad thoughts that she would… I don’t know. Marry me, I suppose.”

“Stupid thought you had.”

“Free folk don’t have marriage, I’d imagine.”

“You’re expected to steal a woman, throw her over your shoulder, and put your spear in her before her clan puts spears in you. The women are expected to make you work for it. I never cared much for it. I wouldn’t want any woman that would let me do that to her and live.”

“Heh. Maybe you should try it with the Dragon Queen. She probably wouldn’t let you live.”

Tormund glanced sidelong at the smaller man beside him. “What if I tried it with you, Jon Snow? Would you let me live?”

That sliver of teeth and a soft chuckle parted the crow’s pretty lips. “I probably couldn’t kill you. Don’t know if I’d make a very good wife though.”

“You wouldn’t be a wife. You’d be my husband. You southeners get your dicks in a twist about husbands but beyond the wall you can have a husband, you can have a wife, you can have a goat, so long as you don’t beat it. You can have all three.” He'd only recently learned dick. He’d been looking for ways to include it in his everyday speak.

“This a proposal?”

“Don’t think I can wed you just yet. The big woman might be offended you’re prettier than her and not want to marry me. Then how will I get my monster sons and daughters?” He shrugged. “After I’ve won her heart, who knows?”

“If we’re still alive come tomorrow, I’ll let you throw me over your shoulder and make off with me.”

“Don’t want you to let me do anything,” Tormund sneered, “Want you to kick and bite and fight me. Curse at me like I’m death incarnate come to steal you away from the living. Bloody my nose and peck out my eyes.”

The southern king’s face was soft and fond as he inclined his head towards him. “I could never hurt you, Tormund.”

“I could probably hurt you.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Wouldn’t want to though. You’re my crow. Means no one gets to hurt you. Not even me." He contemplated a moment, which was rare for him, before he went on, “D’you remember when you died?”

“I seem to recall something like that happening.”

“I remember. I remember walking into that room and thinking it had to be someone else. Or a trick. There was no way the King Crow could be dead. Who would be so stupid to kill him?” He shifted to take both of Jon’s hands in his own. They were small compared to his, but then, everyone was small compared to him. “Didn’t really sink in. Even when I saw you lying there cold and blue, I was just waiting for you to take a breath and open your eyes. ‘He’s going to wake up’, I thought, over and over for hours. I put my hand here-”

He moved to push his palm against Jon’s breast. A breath caught somewhere between the crow’s throat and lungs and stopped there. His chest filled his hand, warm beneath his leathers. “-but I couldn’t feel your heart beating. You didn’t breathe. Even then, I thought, somehow, you’d sit up any moment. It wasn’t until that red tart performed her ritual, when you still didn’t move, that I realized you were gone. I decided then I was going to go and find the men who hurt you. And I was going to tear them apart with my bare hands. I was going to make them suffer your pain ten times over.”

“Tormund,” Jon said soft, brow pinched. He covered the hand on his chest with his own.

“Then they said you were alive. I wanted to run back up there and see for myself. Figured you might need some time alone. Still regret not going then. But when I saw you standing at the top of those stairs…” It was hard to put in words, that feeling he’d known. Losing something he had come to treasure, thinking he would never get it back, yet there he was, returned to the living. He had wanted to sweep him up then and there. Throw him into the snow and fuck him for all the Night’s Watch to see because Jon was his. Let them all know that if death couldn’t have him then neither could any of them. Only Tormund Giantsbane. He stood then, undoing the hooks of his furs. Jon’s eyes went wide.

“What are you-”

“Back then, all l I could think about was how I should have told you. How I ought to have kissed you a long time ago. Tonight is going to be the last night we spend in this world, Jon Snow. Either one of us dies, or both of us die, but I know we’re both not going to see tomorrow. However it goes, I don’t let a chance pass me twice.”

“I don’t know if I can. I mean I’ve never- not with someone like-”

“You play with your own cock?”

“W-What?”

“Don’t tell me you were stuck up at the Wall for years, without a woman in sight, and never milked yourself.”

“I mean, of course I’ve done that but-”

“You know how to play with your own cock, you know how to play with another man’s.” He shifted his shoulders back, pushing his chest against his clothes and the last tooth button snapped open. Fur spilled off his shoulders to pool at his feet. There he stood, chest naked down to his pelvis. The next protest stalled on Jon’s tongue.

“Tormund, I don’t know,” he muttered eventually. His throat sounded so parched it was closer to a croak.

He arched a brow. “Are you going to make me say it?” He leaned forward, one thick paw coming to rest on the mound between Jon’s legs. “You know nothing, Jon Snow. That’s why you let me lead. You want to forget you’re going to die soon?” Jon gave a shaky nod. “You want to forget your family fucking?” Another nod. Tormund pushed in, lips just brushing the curve of his ear. He knew his beard tickled him by the way he shuddered down to the member under his hand. “You want to see where else I’ve been kissed by fire?” 

At that his dick swelled beneath his leathers and into Tormund’s hand. He stroked it from the head down. 

“Take off your clothes then.”

Jon obliged with so much desperation he nearly tangled himself up in his cloak. He cast aside his crow feathers until his pale chest gleamed in the low light. The candle's flame danced over the raised edges of scars, crescent moons carved into his skin where blades had stopped his beating heart. It almost gave Tormund pause. Images flashed of that night, of the coppery stink of blood and and the chill and the start of rot when they brought him into that room. He descended on the crow, cupping a hand over his breast, devouring his lips to remind himself Jon was alive. Alive and his. The scars were testaments that he’d passed through the fire. 

His mouth eagerly ate up Jon's, his neck, the hollow of his throat, one of his nipples. They both hardened between his fingers and beneath his tongue and he gave one a playful bite. Jon reciprocated by digging his fingers deep in Tormund's wild mane, holding on like he might float away without him. 

"Can I…" The crow's gaze fell to the seat of Tormund's pants. He raised his head from his chest to grin.

"Go on then. Won't bite."

His cock practically sprung from his leathers, already hardened enough it pressed up against the other side of his trousers. Jon worried his bottom lip between his teeth. By his expression and the tentative way his fingers touched the flushed member, he might as well have been approaching an unruly beast. A rush of pride ran up Tormund’s spine. He was going to take Jon as no one had before. That he hadn’t so much as touched another man made the blood shoot into his shaft even more. Growing more emboldened, Jon took him in his hand and began stroking. His hands weren’t soft compared to most southerners, the pads of his fingers and palm were rough with callouses where a sword would rest, but Tormund hadn’t been touched by southerners. He’d been loved only by northerners, whose hands were always ruins of scars. The tenderness he treated him with, like he might hurt him, was as amusing as it was exhilarating. 

He tugged down Jon’s leathers to see he was in a similar situation, his dick standing upright like the armored knights of the south, chins tilted up awaiting word from their soft southern king. For the night, Tormund was Jon’s king, as Jon had been his king for months. He shifted, pushing his legs up underneath the smaller man and with a grunt, pulled him into his lap. He pushed in to bury just the tips of his teeth into the other man’s collarbone, the crow’s hands still exploring the ridges and veins down to his balls. Tormund snaked his hand over the curve of Jon’s ass and squeezed. He felt his hips begin to roll and he moved, knees on either side of Tormund’s legs, so their cocks ran up against one another. His breath came hot in the space between them, fogging in the heat of the crypt. Sweat glistened off his chest, down his stomach, catching the light so beautifully on his skin he called to mind the sun sparking off the morning snow. Like the weeping wall. Tormund captured the reflection of fire on Jon’s navel on his tongue and traced up the valley between his tits to take his mouth. He kissed him back, so filled with need he could feel him trembling.

His fingers found the salve he kept strapped to his hip, normally reserved for burns or keeping his leathers from cracking in the cold, and scooped up a glob on two fingers.

“You ready?” He breathed into Jon’s ear. Looking dizzy from the heady thrill, he only nodded, and his breath caught when Tormund slipped a finger inside him. He let out the breath in a moan, sinking his head to rest on the other man’s chest. His hand on his dick stilled and the world stopped for a brief moment. 

“Tormund,” he gasped.

“Alright there, King Crow?”

He nodded wordlessly, and when Tormund went further, moving his finger in and out a few times, he slung his arms around his neck. Nails dug into his back, urging him forward to push another finger inside his entrance. He was glad to oblige. Once the tense muscles in his backside had loosened under his steady care, he pushed himself up enough the tip of his cock slid between Jon’s legs and then, with some gentle coaxing, slid inside. 

As the red woman had said many a time, and by extension, Jon had said many times, the night was dark and full of terrors. This was the darkest night either of them had faced. In the quiet of the tombs beneath Winterfell, everything was light. Tormund knew he may die. He also knew, whatever came, Jon wouldn’t. He would make sure of that.


End file.
